Sixteen Stops.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine
One each of rosé and white combined,
I’m feeling tired and slightly drowsy
On the train but won’t get rowdy
‘Cos that is indefensible,
And acting that way isn’t sensible
My stomach is empty, for I didn’t eat
What was I thinking? Must not repeat
This foolish idea, don’t be so bold,
Lord have mercy I’m so damn cold
I want my bed and I want some food
Sex would be nice, but I’m not in the mood.
I’m still far from home, another sixteen stops
Maybe they’ll fly by- fingers crossed.
The train driver can’t drive well at all,
Sends us flying and down we fall
As he slams on the brakes for no good reason,
Leaves on the line? Well, it’s the season.
It’s getting late but I’m almost there
Trying to be patient but I’m going spare
Come on! Get me home, no time to waste,
Got things to do and food to taste,
I’m trying to fight the sleepyness
So let me get home and eat and rest.

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Trouble on the Tube

Today was Day Two of the Tube strike. Whoopee-shit. I had so much fun dragging my sleepy-eyed self on a 2.5 to 3 hour commute by train.

By the time I got to work I was well and truly narked off and to top it all off, I wasn’t at my usual workplace; I was ‘hot desking’ at my old work HQ. So instead of being settled in my surroundings, I was in a dark, dusty and dingy building that has seen better days…and I didn’t like it one bit. The way the working world is nowadays, hot desking is something that will probably become the norm. But I hope it doesn’t as I like stability. I like being in my own space where I know where everything is and I’m surrounded by my things, my own shit. It’s a mess, but it’s my mess. When I’m in an unfamiliar environment, I don’t feel right.

And another thing: why oh why, on the day of a tube strike, do people try to get in early? The strikers said the trains would start running at 7am. So hordes of people eager to get to work (where some of their superiors couldn’t give a monkeys what time they get in) stood outside tube stations across London, waiting for the gates to open. Waiting…and waiting…and waiting.

Seven o’clock came, then ten-past, then later. The doors opened and in they went, huge crowds of people crushing themselves on trains like sardines. And no matter what time you leave the house, you’re more than likely to be confronted by a sight like this:

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Despite the inevitably long journey, I got in just after 10am, which surely is to be expected during a tube strike! And I did more than enough walking, thus fulfilling my exercise quota for the day. But I was still the last one on my team to get in, which annoyed the daylights out of me. Most of my colleagues were in by 9:30; some were in at 8, leaving their house at an even more ungodly hour to do so. Whatever happened to employees getting in later than usual during a tube strike? Maybe it’s just me but I think it’s futile leaving the house mega-early. I did that this morning and still ended up getting off my bus and walking to the train station which was a good 20 minutes away. There was so much traffic en route to the station, it was beyond ridiculous. Employers should realise that strikes are an exceptional circumstance, so as hard as we try to get to work, you cannot control these kind of events.

And we have to do it all again next week, bar any developments regarding the ongoing talks via all parties which might end up conducted on LBC radio. Can’t wait!

I was gonna write about my journey on the train, but I decided to write a poem instead. Enjoy!

I stood on the tube this morning
And came over all feeble
I had the misfortune to stand among
Some strange-smelling people.

One man (I couldn’t work out which one)
Smelt weird, just like a bin,
One full of rubbish or some such luggage
And filled right up to the brim.

Another man (I kid you not),
His breath smelt like a rubber tyre
He breathed over my shoulder and into my face
(Just in case you think I’m a liar)

The train was packed and I couldn’t stand back
With no room to even turn my paper,
There was no escape, I was surrounded
So I tutted until they left later.

© 2013